


Worse Class of Criminal

by fourcardflush



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Batman Begins (2005), Dark Knight (2008)
Genre: Blood, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied Queerness, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Internalized Homophobia, Multi, Past Abuse, Past Lives, Police Brutality, Underage Drug Use, Unresolved Sexual Tension, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-11 04:58:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2054532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourcardflush/pseuds/fourcardflush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Gotham City Police Department find themselves with four younger, and yet still very familiar looking super criminals. It's the result of some new Time Villain- always forget that guy's name- proving a point, and it only goes downhill from there. </p><p>Set post TDK pre TDKR</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jack Gets a Warm Welcome From the Big City

**Author's Note:**

> So this story happened because I didn't have internet for a few days and so went on a typing rampage. Hope you guys enjoy.
> 
> I know that Black Mask isn't in the movies, but since he's one of the more "non-magical" Batman villains, I feel like his character would fit right into Nolanverse. In fact, besides for the mask-sticking-to-his face thing, he'd blend in so well with the other low elements that I doubt anyone would even notice. I just love his character so much and needed a major mob boss, so- there yah go. 
> 
> Comments are always appreciated and feed my muse!

 

Jack had a _little bit_ of a problem- one minute, he had been _relaxing_ with his _friends_ at one of the many piers which dotted New Jersey, and the next, he found himself transported to a different location altogether. Also, it was _apparently_ in the future, if the newspaper date still meant anything. Jack could easily label his predicament as a bit of a _squeeze_. Mostly, he felt, it was because the blood of one of his most recent _friends_ was dotting his knuckles. Jack was no Expert on the Land of Tomorrow, per se, but he still felt that he shouldn’t be sticking out at the moment, and sticking out he most certainly was.

First order of business, he decided, was wash the blood off his hands. Then, a stain remover for the shirt- oh, fuck it. He’d just have to buy another shirt to be sure. But he was definitely keeping the jacket. These things don’t exactly come _cheap_.

Lucky for him, shirts were very much available in various stores in the future. No having to order via hologram and wait a week for a robot to bring it to him, no sir. In a way, Jack was almost disappointed; he knew it had only been ten years, give or take, but still- _where were the robots?_ The Future was getting more and more boring by the sec- holy _shit,_ would yah look at the price on that thing? Thirty dollars one lousy _shirt?_ Was it spun with gold? Did it have _magical properties?_ No. No, no, he was not paying for this.

Well- he had a gun. What was a gun, really, if it wasn’t being _used_? The cashier wouldn’t know what hit him!

Slinging the shirt over his arm, Jack sauntered over to the exit, and was almost through when the cashier proceeded to make a scene, asking for payment for the Magic Shirt and such. Basic stuff.

“Look,” Jack drawled, slowly turning to face the register with pistol in hand, “Just don’t-“

The cashier had a bigger gun.

Also, friends.

 _Also_ -they all had their own pieces. One had an assault rifle, which seemed a _bit much_ \- what was this, a Korean deli?

Jack said, “Uh, it was how much, again?”

The cashier said, “I’m calling the cops.”

***

Jack would like to say that he put up a valiant fight. That he sallied forth, as any upstanding thug would do, that he shot that cashier right in the face and splattered his brains all over the cheap-looking jewelry that hung behind him before making off like a thief in the night- or the day time, as it were. He _certainly_ would like to say that he didn’t _immediately_ drop the gun like a huge weeny. But hey- it was a huge guy! He was outnumbered!  And Jack had his slender and delicate physique to think of, not to mention his beautiful face. What a shame it would be to ruin it.

And so now, Jack was sitting in a police station which said GOTHAM CENTRAL above the entrance. He was handcuffed to a chair in front of a desk, and on the desk was a plate which read HARVEY BULLOCK. Old Harv was nowhere to be seen. Almost every desk was empty, come to think of it. The officers which _could_ be seen were running around like headless chickens. It would seem that he had come at a rather inopportune time.

Over in the next room, some guy sounded like he was having an aneurism. At the very least, he was some sort of horrible pain, because he was yelling very _loudly_. And very frequently.

The door to the office swung open as someone left, “-AND I WANT EVERY STREET CORNER, EVERY BACK ALLEY SWEPT, YOU HEAR ME, NO ONE WILL REST UNTIL WE FIND HIM-“ and swung shut again.  

Boy, someone’s in trouble, thought Jack. He started to amuse himself by arranging the pencils on Bullock’s desk into a pyramid with his free hand. Hand which was still speckled with blood. And his shirt, oh _shit._

The office door swung open with a BANG, and a herd of angry looking officers marched out with a serious sort of finality. One rather grizzly looking detective broke off and headed directly for Bullock’s desk. Evidently, Old Harv himself.

“What’s this?” He demanded, gesturing at the thug.

“We picked him up at Vincent’s,” answered a nearby uniformed officer, “tried to hold up the store.”

Bullock shook his head and tsked. “Stupid. Even the dumbest criminal knows not to mess with Big Vinny.”

Jack opened his mouth.

Bullock cut him off. “Put him in holding. I’ve got much bigger things to deal with.”

“Yeah, I heard. Sounded like Gordon was gonna have a stroke. What happened?”

“Oh, you’ll never believe it. The Bat said-“he cut himself off abruptly with a sidelong glance at Jack. “I’ll explain on the way. You,” he gestured to another uniform, “put him in holding till I get back.”

“Are you sure it won’t be too long? We can’t-“

“Phone call.”

The three cops froze, and turned toward the speaker. “What was that?” Bullock asked weakly.

Jack looked up to stare at him. “I want my phone call,” he blinked, “I mean- I do, uh, still get one, right?”

Bullock stared at him long and hard for a full minute (Jack counted) and then seemed to shake himself out of something. “Uh, yeah. Sure, kid. Will you get him his phone call?” He shooed Jack down the hall with uniform number two.

Jack was handed a phone and when he turned back, Bullock stared at him in a hard sort of way again before shaking his head and heading out the door.

Jack stared at the numbered keys. Who to call in the future? He decided first on his boss; surely, in around a decade, the guy must still be around. He could only hope that he hadn’t decided to change his number.

A strained voice answered the phone. “Yeah?”

“This still the line for the boss?”

The voice took a gruff edge. “What boss?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Falcone,” he hissed, with a sidelong glance at the uniform sitting at a nearby desk.

“Take your jokes someplace else, pal.” Snarled the voice, before hanging up the phone.

Oh, well. Guess there’d been a number change after all. Should…should he call his dad? Nah, bastard probably wasn’t even still alive. And how was he going to explain how he looked seventeen again? Uh, gee pop, the wonders of plastic surgery sure are _miraculous_ in the future, ain’t they?

With a quiet sigh, he set the phone back in its cradle. The uniform of the desk looked up. “All finished, hun?” She asked brightly.

Jack shook his head. “No answer.”

“Oh, well. You can call someone else if they don’t pick up.”

“I guess I’ll, uh, have to think of someone else in the while, then.”

She gave him a small frown. “Did you try your parents?”

“Nah.”

“You should call them.” She gave him a meaningful look. “Bet they’re worried sick.”

Jack felt his back stiffen. “Look, lady,” he explained slowly, “calling em won’t do me any good. At this point, the only person who might do me any good is a whore, but uh, something tells me you wouldn’t want that in your _respectable establishment_. So just take me to my cell, eh?”

All traces of friendliness fell away from the officer’s face. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll come a little later to do your prints.”

Once securely in his cell, the youth saw that he wasn’t alone. Two other boys, one a bit older, one a bit younger, sat in a neighboring cell. The smaller one looked like a young, bespectacled Jason Behr; probably in for hacking some bank. The bigger, blond one looked like an asshole. Either he was in for embezzling his parents’ money, or for some sort of assault charge, like defending a lady’s honor when some shmoe decided to hit her in public.

The blond caught him staring and sneered. Oh, this _definitely_ had something to do with money. The guy probably ate dollar bills with his cereal for the extra fiber.

Young Behr glanced over as well, eyes darting nervously from side to side. “W-what are you in for?” he asked quietly. Poor guy looked like he could be knocked over if someone blew on him.

“No doubt for fighting,” cut in the blond, before Jack had a chance to answer. “I wouldn’t try to engage him, Jonathan. Unlike you and I, that man is actually guilty of something. Let him serve out his penance in silence, so that he-“

“Oh, _wow,_ ” interrupted Jack, lazily leaning against the bars which separated them. “Great speech, can’t wait to hear the end of it- hey, did your Daddy buy _that_ for you too? Hm?”

The blonde’s face began to redden. “I don’t think that-“

“Yeah, no, like I said. Can’t wait. I’m _dyin’_ to hear the part where you call me the scum of society, really. But, uh, for the record? I really wasn’t doing anything. Ok, I was trying to acquire a new shirt, which may or may not have been in a less than legal fashion. _But_ -“ and here he leaned in conspiratorly, his voice dropping to a whisper. “- _I was transported here_. Believe it or not!” Good luck figuring that one out. Asshole.

Jonathan’s eyes widened, and he gasped. “You’re from the past too!” he shouted.

“Shh, shh. Hey,” Jack hissed, shaking his finger at the younger boy, “quiet down. There are ears everywhere, this is a _police station_.”

The blond tightened his lips. “If you didn’t _do anything_ besides try to shoplift, then why is there blood on your shirt?”

“Well, blondy-“

“It’s Harvey.”

“Short for Harvard?” asked Jack sweetly. Little Johnny snickered, which earned him both a glare and an appreciative glance. “Fine. Harvey. Listen- first of all, it wasn’t shoplifting, and second- the reason that there’s blood on my shirt is that I was _horrendously_ injured.”

Harvey drew back slightly in alarm. “You were? Are- are you alright?”

Jack arranged his face into a more solemn expression. “As alright as I can be.”

“Well,” continued young Harv, giving him a quick once over, “It couldn’t have been your face. So where…?”

Jack tapped the place above his heart. “Right here.”

Harvey squinted at him.

Jack made sure his face was one of pure sorrow. “On the inside.”

The older boy slammed his palm against the bars. Jack started to giggle.

“You’re _killin’_ me, Harvey!”

“Listen, you-“

The cop lady from before rapped on the wall. “Hey, sorry to interrupt,” she said drolly. She turned to Jack. “Ready to get printed?”

“Ma’am,” Jack drew himself up, “I was _born_ ready.”

The guard couldn’t help but chuckle when leading him out of his cell. Jack turned back toward Harvey and flashed him a grin. _Score._

“Do you guys always wait so long to print?” Asked Jack as they trooped down the hall, “From what I, um… _heard,_ it usually happens a lot quicker.”

“Sorry things arn’t as efficient as you’d like-“ she caught herself. “Press your thumb here- it’s been a pretty frenzied day,” she admitted. “A lot of weird things happening-“ His left hand was done, fingers smudged with ink.

Jack caught her eye and held it. “You must be pretty new, huh?”

Her eyes darted away. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, because uh,” he lowered his voice and inclined his head toward her, “most cops would just tell me to shut up instead of answering the question. Just a little _tip._ ” He very, _very_ slightly brushed up against her.

“Well, I- I wouldn’t say that-“

He waved his hand as flippantly as the cuffs would allow it, “Hey, hey,” he said, “Don’t worry! It’s fine! _I_ think that you’re doing a _great_ job!”

Miss Officer’s cheeks turned pink. Amazing. As easy as playing a fiddle.

“Right, almost done,” she said. “We’ll just scan these into the computer- do you have a previous record?”

“Well-“ Jack started to reply. And then paused. The woman’s small grin had disappeared completely. Her eyes bulged as she stared at the screen.  He tilted his head. “Something wrong?”

Her eyes darted from Jack to the screen. She swallowed hard enough for Jack to hear it. “Um,” her voice came out as little more than a dry whisper. “Um, yeah. Can, can you wait right there for a second? Please?” Her hands shook as she cuffed him to the table.

“Uh, yeah sure, if that’s what you-“

“Great!” she squeaked, already half out the door. “Please just stay there then!”

 Jack found himself facing an empty room.


	2. Bullock Seriously Considers Full Retirement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as you can see, I'm kind of mixing characters in from other Batman series. TDK kind of gave us Bullock and Montoya knock offs (possibly so that they could be killed off) but I much prefer the real thing. MOST officers/detective mentioned are actual characters in canon via Gotham Central, a highly recommended series which follows all the bullshit that the GCPD has to put up with

Harvey Bullock had seen many, many bad days at the office and on the job. Even before some looney decided to dress up as a Bat at night, many mad men had rose and many good men had fallen to the gutter. Gotham’s streets had always run red with blood; sometimes for the money but mostly, mostly he thought, because sickos were drawn to this city like flies to filth. The city had hardened and sharpened his soul and drove him to find friendship with the bottle. But never, never did he think he’d live to see this.

The day had begun, as it so often did these days with costumed criminals running amock, with a phone call at five in the morning and Jim Gordon’s rasping voice in his ear. “Come down here _right now_ ,” the Commissioner had said, his voice just on the edge between calm and screaming. This was the first of many tip-offs that something was not right. The second hint came once he made it to the station; like an ethereal spirit, the Bat-signal- the same one destroyed more than a year ago- hung almost mockingly against the night sky.

It only got worse from there. The station was a whirlwind. Wet-behind-the-ears blue officers running to and fro, grumpy detective and lieutenants also called so early pouring themselves another cup of coffee, voices chattering and yelling across rooms speculating about the nature of the urgent call, and in the middle, like a mother bird surveying her nest of crap, was the Commissioner himself, shouting for order.

“ _HEY,_ ” boomed Detective Bullock, hardened veteran of station mayhem, “ _THE COMMISSIONER HAS ASKED FOR QUIET._ ”

Like the air rapidly escaping a balloon, the noise died down.

“ _Thank you,_ ” boomed Gordon in return. “ _Now-_ gentlemen, many have noticed that the Bat-signal has been returned to the roof. And I think you’re all _smart enough_ to work out what that means.”

He paused. The room was as silent as death, each listener hanging onto every word.

“That this is a problem…big enough…that we need the Bat back.”

The room exploded into argument. As soon as Gordon reigned them in once more, he began to explain. He explain how, earlier that night, he had gotten a visit from the Dark Knight. How the Bat had come with most ridiculous of tales, of a new criminal who could reach past the boundaries of time. How said villain had revealed to Batman what he had done, the chaos he had unleashed.

“What he claims is that, essentially…our _best friends_ we’re come to know and love…Dr. Crane, Roman Sionis…well, their _old selves_ have been brought here from the past….hey, hey, will you _shut up_ -“

As the noise died down Gordon gave a small, dry laugh.

“I must admit, I didn’t believe it either, at first. I mean, who would? But, then Batman brought to me…he brought…” Gordon gestured to someone standing behind his office door, “well, maybe I should just show you so you can see for yourselves…” his voice took on a gentler tone, “it’s alright…come on out…”

Out, from behind Jim Gordon’s office door, stepped Harvey Dent.

The level of noise in the office before could not compare to its present state. People were shouting. Friends of Dent began to openly sob. It was open season in the chaos department, and even Bullocks’ and Gordon’s efforts combined could not stop it.

In the middle of it stood a perturbed Dent. His face was whole. To be sure, he looked a lot younger but. But, he was very much alive. Alive and youthful, like when he had first joined Gotham’s department, fresh out of law school. Radiant blond hair casually slicked back, suit well pressed- Christ, this kid couldn’t be a day over twenty one!

The older detective caught Jim’s eye. “Why Dent?” he mouthed. Dent, as far as he knew, had never commit any crime past being a swollen prick. Gordon shrugged helplessly.

A shadow passed over Bullock’s thoughts. The commissioner had mentioned Scarecrow and Blackmask- but that meant-“

“The Clown,” he muttered to himself. And then, louder: “ _The CLOWN.”_

Everyone in bullpen seemed to freeze at once. The Joker. There would now be two _Jokers_. A collective wave of a shiver traveled across the room. Gordon rubbed his temples. “Yeah,” he said, quietly, “the Joker.”

He began to met out the jobs over the next couple of hours; other young villains would have to be found. One unit was formed for Crane, another for Sionis. Others were formed for various crime bosses, just in case. And finally-

“Bullock, Montoya, Chandler, Takahaka. In my office.” Once gathered, their commissioner ran through his plan. Basically, search everywhere for the “other” Joker. Every seedy nook and cranny would be peeled to find the young psychopath. He could already be a seasoned criminal, he could be an average Joe. He might already be rabid, he might not. Take ultimate precaution, and _do not let him get away._ There was a very _limited_ time window before he’d learn to adapt and conceal himself. Gordon was beginning to run himself hoarse with excitement.

 “WE ARE GOING TO FIND THAT LITTLE SONNAVABITCH BY DAY’S END. WE’RE GONNA RUN OURSELF RAGGED, AND I WANT EVERY STREET CORNER, EVERY BACK ALLEY SWEPT, YOU HEAR ME, NO ONE WILL REST UNTIL WE FIND HIM AND THROW HIM INTO A CELL WHERE HE BELONGS.“

 Bullock felt his stomach clench, a feeling by this point altogether familiar to him.

Montoya piped up. “Can we shoot on sight, sir?” Her voice like barbed wire.

Gordon gave it a second’s thought. “No,” he sighed finally. “We don’t know what happened to make him the way he is. There’s a chance his hands won’t be covered in blood yet.”

“But sir, surely-“

“Renee,” Bullock put a hand on her shoulder. “We don’t know _what’s_ out there. And frankly,” he added, “accidental shootings happen all the time.” Gordon leveled him with a sharp glare.

“Alright,” the Commissioner said tiredly, “Go. Get out of my office.”

Bullock headed toward his desk, where a Sid Vicious-looking thug in a cracked leather jacket and dyed black hair hanging over his eyes was waiting. Some sort of punk kid trying to hold up a retail store at eight in the morning. Beautiful.  

Bullock made chit chat with McCullen for a tick while waiting for Montoya. Occasionally, he’d glance at the kid. Something about him- he moved a little too jerkily. His head would turn this way and that, _looking_ instead of glancing, head tilted slightly to the side if something _really_ caught his interest.

The cadence of his voice-

No fucking way. It would never be that easy.

And yet he couldn’t help but give the guy one final, long stare as he was led away.

***

The day’s work was baring little fruition. There were a _lot_ of weirdos living in Gotham, to be sure. But there were no confused-yet-still-evil looking youths (possibly with green hair) wandering around the city. His poor partner was beginning to shake badly with anger and frustration.

“If only we had a little more to go on,” she hissed, “ _Something._ God, we don’t even _know_ what he’d look like.”

Bullock shrugged. “I’d like to think I’d know him if I saw ‘im. Fuck knows I’ve seen his mug shot enough times…”

“Yeah, but it’s harder when-“

The car radio interrupted her with a crackle and sputtered an order to return to the station. Renee gripped the wheel tighter. “You think they’ve got him?”

“One way to find out.”

The pair returned to find a virtual _zoo_ of people crowding out of interrogation room C. It took a whole lot of yelling and elbow muscle to make it to the window, where Gordon and a couple of lieutenants stood.

“Well?” demanded Bullock.

Gordon lifted his finger from his chin and gesture to the figure beyond the glass.

“That _fucking-“_

That fucking skinny Sid Vicious punk.

Montoya leaned over and squinted. “You sure _that’s_ him?”

Gordon shrugged almost nonchalantly. His other hand was rapidly twirling a tired looking pen. “The record came up as soon as we printed him,” he said quietly. “Poor Stacy almost had a stroke. Came to me half hysterical.”

Bullock chuckled. “Hysterical. Over _that_ faggot?”

The young Joker’s neck snapped toward the window. His dark eyes seemed to pierce right through the glass at the detective.  A couple of officers jumped back with restrained shrieks.

“So, eh,” Bullock adjusted his collar, “why’s he in there?”

“His current- er, self’s psychologist has requested to speak to him. See if we can get new stats on his identity, things like that. Says he’d be easier to profile when like this. But, you know,” Gordon coughed, “She wouldn’t want to go in there _alone,_ you see, and as we don’t exactly know what he’s capable of like this…”

Bullock muttered, “Me and Montoya…”

“Exactly. But keep an eye on your gun safeties, eh? He still might just be…ehm, harmless, relatively….”

“Oh, I’ll bet.” Inside the interrogation room, the young Joker appeared to be trying to dislocate his thumbs.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've heard of Ledger's Joker being described as the "grunge Joker," which got me thinking that yeah, he probably would still dress in a flamboyantly alternative fashion, even pre-scars. You know he would. Don't even play.


	3. Welcome to the GCPD

Jack tended to disregard any advice his old man gave to him, but like a broken watch, his pop would occasionally guess right. One memory that stuck out in particular was that, on a day much like any other, his dad had pulled Jack close, beer rank on his breath and palms unfailingly sweaty, and said, “Remember, kid, first sign of serious trouble, you _get the fuck outta der._ Makes it harder for the pigs to pin it on ya.” Jack carried that message near and dear to his criminal heart.

But it might be hard to “get the fuck outta der” in this particular instance, considering _he was already pinned._ Evidently, he had made quite a name for his career already in this old, dark city. He couldn’t say he was _particularly_ surprised; after all, his _outfit_ might be in the Garden State, but all outfits reported back to Falcone. And Falcone’s _company_ was in _Gotham._  Well. Whatever he had achieved, it must’ve been pretty amazing for the pigs to start squealing the way they were. The young lady cop had run in tears out the door, and had brought back with her a virtual _plethora_ of angry policemen who screamed at him to put his hands in the air (“I’m cuffed to the table, _idiot_.”) and then to get on the ground (“ _Still cuffed!”_ Rattle cuffs for good measure.)

No doubt, he had evolved into some sort of infamous bank robber. He had always wanted to engineer a scene at one of the big city ones. Or maybe a nefarious mob hit man? The uniforms were treating him like he’d bite them right in the jugular, so definitely a possibly. Or could he…could he be a _general?_ Ten years was a long time. Had he raised to the top so quickly, like good quality cream? Jack licked his lips. _His own outfit…_

The door to the interrogation room slammed open and in marched good Old Harv, a very angry looking Latina cop, and then…sweet Lord, was that a _model?_

The blonde haired babe approached him at once and stuck out a slender, perfectly manicured hand for him to touch. “I’m Dr. Harleen Quinzel. I’m your… _future self’s_ psychologist.”

Jack grinned widely and slapped the table. “That’s what I’m _talkin’_ about!” He grabbed her hand and shook it enthusiastically. “Pleasures all _mine_.”

She shot him a tight lipped smile. “And you are…?”

“I’m J- wait.” He lifted his head further, staring her right in the heart-shaped face. “You’ve been my therapist for...”

Her left eye twitched. “Five months.”

“Five months.” He licked his lips again. “And over the course of that time, you _never_ thought to learn my _name?”_

She withdrew her hand, suddenly tense. “Well. I just-“

“Just _nothing_ ,” Jack crowed. “Not even knowing- well. _Evidently_ I’ve become some sort of mystery man! Wouldn’t want to _spoil_ it for myself, would I?”

From the back, Old Harv gave a long exasperated groan. “I told you-“

“Now wait,” Dr. Foxy cut him off. “Wait just one second.” She sat down across from Jack and took out a manila folder.

“If you don’t want to give me your name, that fine. But I’d like to call you _something_ -“

“Well, uh, _you_ can call me whatever you want,” Jack said smoothly, flashing his famous Lady Killer grin. He even winked, for good measure. Dr. Quinzel- classy lady that she was- did nothing but pinch the bridge of her nose. The coughing increased from the back of the room, with the Latina detective now joining in.

“I think I’ll call you…Joe. Simple enough?” Jack shrugged. “Alright, Joe, I’m just going to show you some pictures, and-“

“Are these _pictures_ part of some sorta test?” Jack butt in.

“Well, I mean yes, depending on your answer, it could-“

“Look. Harl. Can I call you Harl?”

“I’d really prefer-“

“Listen. Harl. Did you give… _future_ me these tests?”

“Don’t answer that,” called Bullock.

Both Jack and his therapist shot the detective a look. “So you _did_. So why are you giving them to me?”

Dr. Quinzel adjusted her glasses. “Well-look. Someone’s way of thinking can change after adulthood, so I just figured, with you here, you know, _now,_ we could compare…”

Her voice trailed off as she caught Jack’s petulant stare. “That’s pretty neat, I’ll hand it to ya,” he drawled, “but the thing is, Harl. Harley, the thing is,” he lifted up one of the picture cards to examine it, “these tests, they look like they’re, uh, for _mental patients_ , looneys, something like that. So-“

Bullock’s coughing cut in once more, so loud this time that it cut off any attempt at future verbal discourse.

“Well, that’s enough of that,” he said stoutly. He pulled out the blonde’s chair. “Thank you, _so much_ , Dr. Quinzel, for letting him interrogate you. Time to leave.” Jack watched mournfully as his therapist-babe gathered her things and left in a huff, all while equally distributing glares to everyone else left in the room. He mouthed “call me” to her retreating form, but by then her back had turned, and- _god,_ what a sweet ass she had. The angry lady cop unceremonially swung the door shut on her retreating form.

Bullock sank down into the empty seat and sighed. “Feet are fuckin killing me,” Jack heard him mutter. His partner walked around to behind Jack’s seat, just out of his view. Bullock spread his hands out in front of him.

“So.” He said, with an air of finality.

Jack squinted at him and shrugged his shoulders up, hands and fingers also spread. Classic body language of confusion, Harv, ya can’t miss it.

“So…?”

The detective chuckled darkly, as if Jack’s reply had held some sort twisted pun. Jack shifted in his seat. The other cop was still behind him. He could hear her breathing, ragged and hard despite a lack of movement.

Bullock leaned toward the boy, as if about to share a secret. “You know…what I _really_ wanna do, kid?”

“Uhm,” Jack gave him a quick once over and tilted his head. “Not eat another box of, uh. Donuts, hopefully.” The last word was half-swallowed, despite Jack’s effort to keep his voice from shaking. Damn speech impediment was coming back.

Rather than become angry, the detective let out a low chuckle. “Eheh. A donut joke to a cop. Pretty amusing.” Old Harv’s lip even twitched upward. Jack’s eyebrows shot up and he leaned back into his seat. His head bumped against the woman’s torso and he jumped, head twisting upward to look at her scowling face.

“Woah, careful with Montoya there,” put in Bullock. Jack’s eyes darted back at him. He didn’t look scared, like the rookie blues had. His eyes held none of Quinzel’s inquisitiveness- hell, he looked like he was ready to slide his slippers on, body fully slumped and relaxed in his seat. But he had eyes of the wolf, as Jack’s cousin Melvin used to say. The eyes that cops get when they’re through with your shit and are about to slam you into the pavement. “When tha copper gets the eyes of a wolf,” Melvin once advised, “that’s when you shuddap and start kissing ass. And then _maybe_ he won’t beat youze half stupid.” Montoya laid a casual hand on Jack’s shoulder and squeezed it softly through the leather.

“The thing that I really want…I mean, really, _really_ want, is…” went on Bullock, his voice turned suddenly sweet. Jack sat straighter in his chair, though he knew he probably shouldn’t. The idea was to be relaxed, right? Relaxed bodies don’t get as injured, or so he’d heard. Montoya’s hand had left his shoulder and he could feel it hovering just behind his head. Relax when she does it. Don’t let the wolf smell blood, no matter how much-

It came faster and harder than he thought, and he swore on his mother’s grave, he could _hear_ his nose crunch when it hit the table. He let loose a rather undignified yell as the pain rolled over him seconds later. Sonuvagun. Blood began to spurt out of his nostrils and down his lip and into his mouth, salty and wet as the sea. He slowly lifted his head. Bullock handed him a handkerchief, which he snatched with what he hoped was a stubborn glare.

“Hope my partner didn’t break it there,” said Bullock cheerfully.

“Hm, hope not,” replied Jack. Carefully. God, his voice had turned so _nasally_.

 Jack tried to wipe the blood from his mouth to no avail. It smeared across his lips and was starting to resemble an open wound. Montoya swaggered back around to her partner’s side of the table.

“I’m beginning to recognize him more already,” Montoya purred. She glanced down at Bullock. “You wanna go?”

Bullock gave him a long look. Jack sniffled as dignified as he could but didn’t look him back in the eye. His heart thudded in his ears. His palms were beginning to sweat and he clenched them. Finally, the detective gave a slow nod and pushed back his chair.

There began a low noise, like a building roar, from behind the observation glass.

“I know you’re probably a little confused right now, kid,” Bullock addressed the frozen youth as he advance toward him, “and if we’re being completely honest, you _probably_ won’t deserve this, but….” Bullock began to roll up his sleeves, “…if there is _any_ chance, from any _time,_ that I can make you feel just a little bit sorry, then well-“

Bullock let low a small chuckle and pulled his fist back. He was looming over Jack now, grabbing his shirt as if he could sense Jack’s urge to duck, and, and was he shaking? No, he didn’t _do_ that, never in front of a fucking copper oh god what would Tyler and Chris and the other guys say if they saw him-

   “-I’m afraid…that I’m really just going to have to take it.”

The heavy metal door slammed open. “That is _enough_ ,” roar a third, mustachioed cop. Jack felt himself being lowered back into the chair. Mustache pointed to each detective angrily. “You, and _especially_ you- get out.”

***

Afterward it was simply a matter of letting Jack clean himself up (one of them- Cohen? Had even set and plastered his nose for him, bless that man’s Jewish soul) and leading him back to his familiar cell. A third young man had since joined the other two already there. And boy- if Harvey looked like he ate money for breakfast, then this guy looked like he shit gold out. Everything from the specific sneer that only the rich possess to the guy’s finely cut Italian suit was already setting Jack off.

Once safely locked in, Jack approached the other group’s adjoining bars and surveyed them all, licking his lips. “Well,” he said finally, “I’m glad that the entire Young Republican party is reunited.”

The rich guy rolled his eyes and took out a comb for his hair, because apparently that was the exact kind of asshole that he was. He was _really_ taking his time to get it right, too. Ugh. Jack turned to Harvey.

“So!” he began brightly, “hope I wasn’t gone too long for you to start missing me!”

“Never,” replied Harvey dryly.

Jack ignored the barb. “Well did _I_ miss anything?”

Jonathan piped up, “We met Roman here,” he gestured at the douche with the comb, “and, w-well, we all three were just trying figure out why we’re still in jail, ‘cause none of us are really criminals, unlike you-“

“Whoa, whoa! Who said none of you are criminals?” cut in Jack, wounded. He tapped his forehead. “This is the _future_ , right? Who _knows_ how any of you turned out? Hell, for all we know, _I’m_ the cop, and _all of youse_ ,” here he pointed directly to Harvey, who glared back, “are the _real_ crooks!”

Roman let out a dry laugh from his corner. “Pretty bad welcome you got, for a cop.”

Jack rubbed at the plaster covering the bridge of his nose, suddenly sulky. “Well, yeah. Ob-viously that wouldn’t really happen, I was simply making a _point_.”

 Harvey shook his head. “I don’t buy it. I’m halfway to becoming a lawyer at this point, so why in the world would I turn to crime?”

“Shitty things happen all the time to turn people bad,” replied Jack darkly. “You’ll see.” He glanced at Jonathan, who blanched and shivered and looked away. Bingo. “In fact,” he continued suavely, “I wouldn’t be surprised if one of you wasn’t _already_ considering it-“

“Shut up for a minute.” Interrupted Roman. Jack snapped his mouth shut with a sour look. Roman ignored it and lifted up a finger. “Do any of you guys hear that?”

The dull roar that Jack had heard in the interrogation room had grown louder. It surrounded them. Harvey frowned. “It sounds like it’s-“

“-coming from the outside. Yeah.” Roman nodded. “I’ve heard this once before, when a warehouse from my father’s company went on strike.” Jack rolled his eyes back into his head. _This guy._

“But that means,” said Jonathan slowly, “that it might be a-“

Angry mob.


	4. Harvey Dent, Golden Boy

The station residents had been kind to him from the start. Some even mentioned that they were friends with him. Some avoided his eye with clenched jaws. They confirmed that yes, he had become an attorney, had worked with them often, had made friends! On the side of the law, all straight and narrow.

Harvey Dent would like to think that he was already a man of certain integrities. He had no reason not to be- his life was on track, he had little student debt, and had just been accepted to Harvard Law. He knew now, definitely, that he would succeed.  He had always felt that he had a penchant for fighting crime, and what better way to do it than to lock criminals away?

Like the one currently staring at him through the bars with the eyes of a shark, for instance.

It wasn’t as if Harvey had never come into contact with a common thug before; hell, sometimes he could understand why the crime was committed, if the criminal seemed desperate enough. Prison was supposed to be _reformation_ after all, and there were probably as many good prisoners as there were crooked cops. Two sides of the some coin. But the officers here had warned him of two things: first, that he should keep his mouth shut if the situation called for it, and second-

Stay away from _that guy._

The wise guy. Harvey liked to see the good in people, but he could tell that this punk was only going to go in one direction- _south._ And he was sinking pretty fast. From what Harvey could recall from Criminology classes, a man would shake and sweat when committing any sort of violent or high caliber crime- until he was used to it, that is. And this guy was dry as a bone, injured nose or no.

Harvey was thankful for the barrier. His two cell mates weren’t _nearly_ as bad, although Roman was already showing an overall tendency of acting like a dick. Poor Jonathan, in contrast, looked like he was about to fold over like a house of cards. He was skinny as a stick and his big, blue eyes always peered out frightendly from behind his taped over glasses. A magnet for any bully in his radius.

See, that’s the type of person I’m going to protect, thought Dent. Poor John’ll probably grow up into a successful man for his field - an accountant, or maybe a teacher- but he’ll always look back at his youth in regret.   

The noise from the mob had since grown even louder.

“I’m going to go see what’s going on,” announced the punk.

Roman raised an eyebrow at him.  “And how are you going to do that from _here_?”

The younger man grinned and flashed something between his thumb and forefinger. “Never underestimate my in-genuity.”

It was a key. A goddamned cell key. Hell knows where he got it- Harvey wouldn’t be surprised if Satan himself had sent it to him gift wrapped. He watched in stunned silence as the punk opened his cage with flourish. Roman wrapped his hands around the bars of his cell.

“Hey,” he called. “You! Ah…”

The punk raised his eyebrows. “Call me Jack,” he supplies, after a pause.

“Jack! Right. I feel like you and I…maybe we started off the wrong way.”

“Hmm,” went Jack. He tapped his foot.

“I just want you to know,” Roman went on quickly, “that I happen to have a _lot_ of money, and I’m pretty charitable with my friends, so…”

Jack’s lip twitched. “You wanna be friends?”

“Sure, sure! You do this favor for me- unlock the door- I do a favor for you.”

Jack considered it. “I can have anything?”

“Ab- _solutely_.”

“Ok,” said Jack. “I want all of it.”

Roman’s smile froze. “I- I’m sorry?”

“All of it,” repeated Jack. “I want _all_ your money.”

Roman paused. He sucked his teeth in. And then, suddenly, he laughed. Jack watched it all with a peculiar smile on his face.

“Yeah, whatever kid.” Wheezed the older boy, “All my shit. You got it.”

“Well then, _friend,_ I will be right back.” And with that, Jack turned on his heel and was soon out of sight.

Harvey gave Roman a side-long glance. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

“Whatever,” he rolled his eyes, “even if he was serious, I could _easily_ have a little punk like him taken care off. Hell, he may be tall, but he’s still half my size. _I_ could take care of him _myself_.”

Harvey wasn’t so sure. The thug had very obviously already sustained a beating –by the cops themselves, but he tries not to remember that part- and was still bouncing around like a rubber ball. He didn’t seem the type to be intimidated by pain, but then- there was only so much any human being could take.

“I’m ba-ack,” sang Jack as he bounded back into his cell and shut the door. “Wouldn’t want to cause any, uh, _suspicion_ ,” he added, in answer to the other three’s questioning stares. He rocked back onto his heels. “Boy, are we three all in _trouble_.”

Roman quirked an eyebrow. “There are four of us.”

“Well I know that, _pal_ , I know how to count. But if the television had anything to say about it,” he gestured vaguely down the hall, toward the bull pen “then the wonderful Gotham denizens only want _three._ Didn’t specify to use _actual_ names, but if I had to bet- and I usually gamble in my own favor- that little shit-show with the police proves that they’re after _me_ , but they’d also want to tear apart you-“ he pointed at Roman, “aaaaand _you_.” His finger landed on Johnathan, who started to tremble.

“Why me?” he whispered.

“Why you- why _me?_ ” demanded Roman.

Jack rolled his eyes and cocked his head. “Cause, I _told you_ , didn’t I? _We’re all criminals here_.”

Jonathan swallowed thickly. “I- I guess we all got to be pretty bad, huh? For- for a whole mob to-“

Harvey laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure it can’t be that bad-“He was interrupted by a continuous booming. The mob had started to bang on the walls.  Jack let out a low whistle.

“Well. You can stay here to greet your friends, _I_ would rather _not_.” He opened his door again and went to unlock the other. “You coming, _chum_?”

Roman patted him heavily on the back as he exited his cell. “You bet, _pal_. You have a way out?”

Jack dangled something in front of his face. Car keys. Roman raised an eyebrow and smiled despite himself.

“You really are something, you know that?”

Jack hummed. “You like? Snatched ‘em from the fat cop when he was about to beat the tar outta me. I swear, everyone here has some serious _anger issues_ to work on.”

The two started off down the hall. Jonathan looked up at Harvey, hesitated, and then started off after them. “Wait!” he cried. They stopped and turned toward him, inquisitive. “I’d like to come, too,” the younger boy panted, “If- if they’re really after me too…”

Sionis sneered down at him. “I don’t think that-“

Jack stopped him with a pat on the shoulder. “Now now, buddy,” he intoned, “I’m not adverse to helping a _fellow criminal_ in need- if that’s what he really is.” He glanced down at Johnathan benevolently. “That’s what you are, right? You’re a criminal! Like _me._ ”

Johnathan stared almost blankly back. “I- well, I guess I am, now, I mean…” Jack began to grin wider.

“Alright, stop.” Cut in Harvey, stepping out of the cell and shutting it with a _clang_. “If you’re taking him with you, then let me come too.”

Jack’s brows furrowed. “ _You_? But I thought you were firmly on the side of the _law_.”

Harvey hesitated. Johnathan turned back and looked into his eyes desperately.  “Look,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck “I don’t know why I, or why _any_ one of us turned up here like this, alright? But, given the circumstances…there might also be…a _slight_ chance, mind you, that I could also- also be…”

“Ahhh alright, I won’t make you say it, Blondy,” Jack put in cheerfully, with a wink. “You can come. The car probably holds four anyways.” He turned back on his heel. Roman, however, was standing stock still.

“Wait a minute-“ he sputtered, “They- I-“ Jack raised an eyebrow at him, “aren’t you going to ask _them_ for something?”

Jack frowned. “What for?” Roman began to turn red.

“Well, you asked _me._ ” He snarled.

Jack clicked his tongue. “No, no, _you_ decided _offer me_ something. What do I look like, an idiot? ‘Course I said yes!

“And besides,” he added, eyeing a throbbing vein in Roman’s forehead, “I’m already getting all of _your_ money, right? What else could I _possibly_ need after that?”

***

Five minutes later, a lone unmarked Ford Crown Victoria pulled out of the parking lot and began to slowly part the sea of people blocking the exit of the lot. Harvey’s heart thudded against his chest. Boy, this was a lot of people. Lot of angry people. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, now slick with sweat. Someone slammed their palm against the window and he jumped.

“Will you calm down?” Jack growled in his ear from behind him. He was seated in the back with Crane, head hanging low and eyes behind a pair of dark shades he had nicked, ‘just in case.’ Roman sat sprawled in the passenger seat, trapping his door handle impatiently.

“It doesn’t help that we’re moving at a snail’s pace,” Harvey hissed back from the corner of his mouth. “Someone can recognize one of us any second!”

“What’s with all the clowns?” asked Johnathan pointedly. Some protesters had brought signs with pictures of a clown with drawn X’s over his eyes.

“See, that’s what _I_ was wondering,” muttered Jack, “I think he’s some sort of symbol, or mascot or something. Maybe he’s gonna be your company mascot, Roman!”

“As if,” said Roman flatly. “Guy looks like a jackass. Wouldn’t sell. I mean, just look at that _suit_.”

“Hmm, I actually don’t mind the suit so much. But the _hair_?” Jack gestured to his own head of perfectly unkempt gelled locks, “ugh, not a fan. Hasn’t he heard of a comb?”

Someone started to bang on the driver’s window again. Harvey looked over to see an irritated-looking brunette woman, who gestured for him to roll down his window. “Don’t-“ hissed Roman, but it was too late.

Harvey waved a hand to get him to shut up. “How may I help you, ma’am,” he asked as politely as he could. His pulse hammered in his throat.

The woman surveyed the passengers in the car, from Dent to Soinis to the two in the back. “I’m Vicki Vale from the _Gotham Gazette._ Would you like to comment on what you plan on doing with the…current prisoners in your holding cells?” She held a recorder to Dent’s face.

“Um,” said Dent, “no comment.”

“But do you-“

“Ma’am,” Roman interrupter her smoothly, leaning forward to look up at her. “Believe me, Gotham PD is doing _everything_ in its capacity to hold these fiends and eventually bring them to justice.”

From the back seat, Jack let out a whoop of hysterical laughter, which earned him a deadly look from all around. Vale furrowed her brows and tried to peer into the back seat. “What-“

“Well, that’s all the time for questioning we have!” Roman chirped, leaning over to Harvey’s side to roll up the window.

“But-“

“Some other time, Ms. Vale!”

Several excruciating minutes later, they were out and coasting down 22nd street. Harvey was tense at the wheel, on the lookout for any sign of a chase. His head snapped back and forth to search for any car of white and blue.

“Oh, relax,” purred Jack. Harvey heard him shift back in his seat. “Worst part’s over. Now we just gotta get some _distance_.”

“Distance to where?” demanded the blond.

“Uh, dunno. Don’t care. _I’m_ heading back to Jersey, you’re certainly welcome to come but, you know. Be warned- it’s Jersey.”

Roman turned around to glare at him. “We are _not_ driving all the way down there,” he snapped. “And _what the fuck_ was that back there? Laughing like a maniac- were you _trying_ to get us caught?!”

Harvey glanced at Jack in the mirror. He was darting his tongue out of his mouth like a lizard. “That was just- well, I, I wasn’t- it was _funny_ ,” he burst out. He flipped his shades up to stare back at Harvey. “Wasn’t it?” he asked quietly.

Dent slowly blew air out of his nostrils. “Well…it was certainly ironic, I’ll give you that.”

Jack gave a whoop of triumph and Roman groaned. The former flipped his shade back on. “Roll my window down,” he commanded.

Harvey complied and Jack stuck his head out, smiling like a Cheshire cat who had gotten its cream. “What are you, a dog?” Roman demanded. Jack glance back at him and then gave out a long howl to the wind.

The older boy hunched back into his seat. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered bitterly. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well looks like they're in the clear, guys. What could go wrong? 
> 
> Also, in case you still wondering, Jack lifted the cell door key off of the officer who printed him


	5. It's Simple...

“Look, I’m telling you,” Bullock said pleadingly to his boss as they rushed around the room. “He may look hard now, but his center’s still soft. You saw how scared he was, we all did!  His eyes were round as fuckin dinner plates! _There’s still a chance_ ,” he leaned in closer to Gordon and said in lower tones, “He’s still just a punk. An obnoxious kid. If you let me and Montoya give him a couple of lessons in manners _now,_ think of all the deaths we can prevent!”

Gordon shook his head. “I’m sorry, Harvey,” he said tiredly, “but I can’t condone you beating on him like that. Not on my watch.”

Bullock bristled and stopped dead in his tracks. “Think of Dent!” he burst out. “Dawes! Half the major crimes unit, for fuck’s sake! You’re still willing to let that all go, why- ‘cause this Joker’s still a little green? He’s already pretty screwed in the head, we all saw it-“

“ _DO NOT_ ,” roared back Jim, turning around, “do _not,”_ he growled, “come to me, and tell me that I wouldn’t try and bring them back if I could. You _know_ I would, Harvey. But not like that. We have methods of turning around trouble like him, but beating the piss out of the kid every day _isn’t one of them_.”

“But it’ll work,” protested Bullock. Gordon raised a finger at him.

“No. _No_ , it might work. Might. _Or_ , he’ll get meaner with age _anyway_ , but now all he’ll remember is all the times the GCPD caused him pain and he’ll blow _all of us_ sky high when we sleep! Jeez, Bullock, would it kill you to think for once?”

Bullock glowered in response. What the hell was Gordon trying to prove?

***

It had been three hours since the mob had begun to form. Detective Allen had almost had a stroke when he switched on the TV in the break room to see the front of his very own station was being filmed on the Gotham News Network, angry protesters already surround it. He had, of course, called everyone over once he recovered his breath.

A smartly dressed woman- Vicki Vale, if Bullock could remember reporters for his life- was covering the scene.

“A day of miracles,” she began, “or, is it? As GNN reports from a major tip, a new Gothamite villain may have inadvertently granted its citizens a gift.”

The scene cut to a tape that Mr. Hourglass or the Timenator or whatever it was that his name was had sent in. It was pretty well executed- Timelord was sitting on a throne of clock parts, going on about his powers and his ability and all that crap. And then it got juicy.

“Citizens of Gotham,” Time Man said with a flourish of his hand, “I have bestowed upon you a blessing and a curse in order to prove my ability. Those criminals that you’ve come to hate the most- the Scarecrow, Black Mask, the Joker, and more- I’ve brought their old selves back from the past, before they were capable of harm.”

Time Guy leaned into the camera and smiled widely. “The question is, Gothamites, is on which side will your beloved Dark Knight stand? On the side of his people, to help eradicate such rampant potential for evil? Or,” he leaned back, “on the side of young pups who soon enough grow into wolves?”

And then, probably just for the fucking effect, the guy had started to laugh.

Gordon turned off the TV and faced him men. “Today may have gotten a bit longer,” he admitted. Word had only spread since then that the GCPD was holding all three of the biggest “pre-villians” that the city had to offer. And the crowd’s anger had only grown.

It had been an hour and a half since the young Joker had stolen his car.

Because God hated Bullock and shat on his dreams, it happened to be that Bullock and Montoya had the _only_ car with a broken GPS tracker. Why hadn’t he removed his keys before going into block C? Would he have left them on his person if it were the _current_ Joker? _Stupid_.

And because the Joker was an evil cunt from the bowels of hell no matter what age he was, and could never for his life let things _be_ , he had taken the other three boys with him. Sionis, this he could see coming from a mile away, and Crane- well, he seemed harmless enough, but Bullock wouldn’t be surprised if he was somehow still slimy as ever. But _Dent_? The department’s Golden Boy, whose hands were so clean, they could probably purify the possessed? What business did he have leaving, and more importantly, _what_ was he even doing here now? He eyed Gordon suspiciously. The man had seemed awfully _unsurprised_ to see Dent appear with the rest of the scum.

The entire building, by this point, was in complete chaos. Of course it was- the day’s work ruined, and now the detectives had to stay in late on top of it. Gordon hurriedly went off to make a phone call to the D.A. The mob outside had only succeeded in increasing in numbers. Bullock didn’t know _who_ had decided to sell such sensitive information to GNN, or what proof they had, but he would make sure to personally strangle him.

 Corrigan shook him out of his thoughts, waving him over to his desk. “What’ve you got for me? Any luck?” he asked the CSI. Corrigan ran a hand through his wavy brown hair. “Matter of fact, I do.” He grinned up at Bullock. “You’re going to just _love_ this. Follow me.” He led Bullock to the evidence room.

“When we first got ahold of young Joker, we took off all suspicious items, but y’know, nothing too anal, since we didn’t know who he was. During that sweep we took a Glock, a hunting knife, and a switchblade off of him. Plus any extraneous chains- well, you’ve probably read that report.” Bullock nodded slowly.

“Right. So after we found out who he _was_ , I decided to order one more pat-down, since it’s the Joker now and all…and that’s when I found _this_ in his wallet!” Corrigan picked up and brandished a playing card. On the front was the old, familiar Jack of Clubs that anyone would know, and on the back was a small black stamp of a bird’s silhouette.

Bullock scratched his chin. “The Joker carrying a playing card? Color me surprised.”

Corrigan waved the card excitedly, “You don’t get it!” he half shouted in excitement, “this isn’t just some _ordinary_ playing card. This is a _hit card_.”

Bolluck scrunched his brows. “Don’t tell me that’s…”

“I figure at his current age, the guy must’ve come from, what? ’96? ’97? That’s when Falcone was in his _prime_ , man! He has his fingers in every gang’s pockets all the way down the coast. I think-“

“-that the Joker used to work for him.” Bullock finished. He knew those cards well, from back in the day. Often, Falcone controlled so many street gangs along the coast at once that they couldn’t keep track of each other. The playing cards with the special black ink on the back helped avoid friendly fire when travelling between territories. Numbers would indicate rank, and Bullock whistled to himself; the Jack card was just a step below Lieutenant.

“It was just a suspicion at that point,” Corrigan chattered on, “but then I remembered he’d used his phone call! So I pull up the recording, and guess who he tried to talk to?”

Bullock closed his eyes. “Not Falcone?”

“Falcone,” the CSI confirmed.

Bullock opened his eyes again. “That’s where he’s gonna go next,” he said aloud. “His old boss’s place. Except…wasn’t that in _Narrows?_ ”

Corrigan snorted. “Yeah. Kid must be pretty stupid after all to drive an unmarked car through there at night.”

“There’s already plenty proof of that,” said Montoya from the doorway. She looked inescapably angry. The detective marched over to her partner and shoved a photocopy of something into his hands.

It was a traffic cam still. Young Dent was in the driver’s seat with his eyes bulged out and Sionis sat next to him. The latter appeared to be yelling angrily and pointing toward where the traffic light would be. The Joker, meanwhile, was wearing a serious pair of shades and had stuck half of his body out of the window- with little Crane holding desperately onto the ends of his jacket- and was flipping the camera a double bird. Corrigan took a peak over Bullock’s shoulder. “Those sunglasses, they’re…”

“Montoya’s,” Bullock confirmed.

Said detective growled deep in her throat. “Just wait till I get my hands on that little _puta_ …”

Bullock looked up. “What street was this taken on?”

“Corner of 5th and 11th, Going down Midtown,” she replied. Her lip quirked. “You don’t think they’re headed for the _Narrows_?”

“That’s _exactly_ where I think they’re going,” said Bullock pointedly.

The trio marched over to Gordon’s office and Montoya rapped smartly on the door. “Commissioner?” she called. Gordon sounded like he was in the middle of an argument and didn’t reply. The detective pushed the door open.

Gordon was facing an empty open window, hands planted firmly on his hips. He turned around guiltily. “Oh! Montoya!”

“We have some vital information on the group’s whereabouts,” she said, holding a file aloft. “Um- who were you arguing with?”

“I was on the phone with the D.A. You know what a stringy bastard he is.”

Bullock eyed Gordon’s phone, which sat a full five feet away on the corner of his desk. He cleared his throat and rapidly flicked his eyes toward it until his boss took notice. Gordon gave him a narrow-eyed look.

“Well, let’s take a look see,” he said, reaching for the file. 

“He’s heading for the Narrows,” put in Corrigan.

“The Narrows? And it’s already dark! Montoya, you come with me. Corrigan, back to work. Good job, both of you.” The three rushed out, leaving Bullock in a seemingly empty room.

The detective cleared his throat once more and approached the window.

“I know you’re out there,” he called. The night gave no reply.

“Do you know why Dent-“Bullock stopped himself. “You know what? Don’t even tell me. I’m sure I don’t really want to know.” Still, he was met with silence past the sound of the city.

“I don’t want to know,” Bullock repeated. “But you know what? It doesn’t even matter. We both know that it all comes back to _him,_ doesn’t it?” He swallowed thickly. “So what are you going to do, oh masked vigilante? This time wizard, or whatever he is, seems to be giving you a second chance, way that I see it,” his voice dropped lower, “and the way I see it, with you thinking you’re above the law and all, would it be so bad to snuff out _one little life_ to prevent the loss of so many others?”

The detective couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard the rustling of a cape.

“Just think it over,” he said quietly as he pulled down the window. “Think of Dawes. And of what happened to Dent, before you-”he cut himself off and sighed.

As he turned to leave Gordon’s office the moon burnt a hole into the back of his neck.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You see one moment I'll write like Chuck Palahniuk and the next I wax Hemingway
> 
> Things are about to get a lot hotter before the big kaboom, kiddos, so stick around


	6. Everyone's a Liar (On The Inside)

Jonathan Crane slowly roused himself into consciousness. Bright lights danced along his eyelids. For a few fantastical moments, he thought that he was looking up at night sky from Keeny Farm. He would be lying in his favorite spot in the orchard. It’s summer, he thought. The peaches should be warm and ripe by now.

He opened his eyes.

 Nothing hung above him but the faint outline of a pipe. The ground underneath him was not grassy and wet with dew, the air holding not even a hint of humidness. It was dark and cold and his hands were bound behind him. Panic shot through his veins in tiny needles. Grandmother. It must be. But what had he done wrong this time? He couldn’t for the life of him remember. He squeezed his eyes shut. He must remember what he did before she returned; Grandmother didn’t oblige wrong answers. And he had given wrong answers too many times this week, stupid that he was.

He was beginning to lose his breath when someone stirred and groaned beside him. Jonathan’s eyes shot open and he attempted to roll to his side.

“John?” Harvey Dent asked weakly.

Memories from the previous evening began to rush back. Jack had claimed that since they were all already in enough trouble, he would seek the protection of his boss. “Most powerful man I know,” the thug almost bragged, “that guy _must_ still be around.” He had then proceeded to direct the car into the seediest area that Jonathan had ever seen in his life, including the backwoods of his native Georgia. The filthy and dark building loomed over the narrow streets, as if waiting to devour the car and its inhabitants. Garbage covered the sidewalk, stinking and wet in the faint light of the sparse streetlamps.

“There’s no one around,” Roman had muttered, squinting suspiciously through the glass into every dark alleyway they passed. 

Jack blew a short raspberry from the back. “Course not! It’s _wa-ay_ too late for anyone to be walking around here. Anyone halfway _decent,_ anyway.” He leaned forward and propped his elbows on the front seat. “Ain’t you a native Gothamite? You should _know_ this.”

Roman snorted. “Course I am. That’s why I’ve never been _stupid_ enough to visit the _Narrows_.”

No sooner that the reply left Sionis’ mouth that something hit the windshield. There was a flash of light and an incredibly loud _bang_. Jonathan secretly thought that if this proved anything, it was that God had a dark sense of humor. But then again, this had been proved to him many times before.

Events became hazier after that. Jonathan remembers two hulking black SUVs pulling up to either end of the car. Jack had procured a pistol from under his shirt- when had he gotten that?- and hit the butt against the back window until the glass shattered. Shots were exchanged, too loud for Jonathan to bear. He had trouble hearing over the sudden ringing in his ears.  From the front van, men in black suits had begun to pour out the doors. One of them was hitting a crowbar against the driver’s window and he could faintly hear Jack shouting at Harvey to duck. More shots. Blood and brains splattered against Jonathan’s glasses and hair and face and he gasped and then blessed, blessed darkness and silence.

Jonathan’s thoughts snapped back to the present. Harvey was fully awake now and wiggling from side to side. Jonathan raised his head.

“Harvey? What are you doing?”

“Trying to get out of here,” the blond grunted. “Where the hell is Jack? I’ll be surprised if he isn’t free and screwing around by now.”

“No surprise is necessary,” came a strangely calm voice from the corner. Jonathan squinted and could barely make out the form of his spikey-haired companion.  His hands were indeed already freed, and he sat cross-legged and deadly still.

Something ancient and almost equally deadly from the back of Crane’s mind warned him to tread carefully. He had never seen Jack this still before; even when sitting, the older boy was always twisting and turning is his seat or waving his arms or wagging his head. Now he was calm as the old deep puddles that occurred around the farm after too much rain. Puddles too murky to see what swam inside of them.

Harvey Dent seemed to sense the change also. “Jack,” he called softly. Jonathan had once spoken to his pet rabbit that way, after Grandmother had found it and beat it with her shiny wooden cane. The rabbit had lain broken and bloody in his trembling hands, and he had sobbed silently as he snapped its neck.

“Jack, will you please untie us?”

Jonathan could see the movement as Jack lifted his head toward them. It was slightly off and _wrong_ , reminded him of the way his Ma had moved right before she had had to leave forever. “Her demons consumed her,” Grandmother had given as an explanation. “She is a _whore_ , Jonathan. It was only a matter of time. Let us pray.”

He suddenly didn’t want Jack to untie him. Didn’t want him anywhere near.

But Harvey persisted. “We’ll help you get out of here.”

Jack gave a low hiss. “There _is._ No way out. I have _thoroughly_ checked.” He suddenly stood, fast as a loaded spring. “But you can help when the guard comes back.”

As Jack helped to free him, Jonathan found himself asking, “But when will the guard come back?”

“He will soon enough,” replied Jack simply. Most of the bloodlust in his voice had since disappeared.

Jonathan and Harvey stumbled to their feet. The younger boy’s arms were immensely sore and he rubbed them distractedly.

“Alright, bitches,” said Jack, standing at mock attention. Now that he was closer, Jonathan could make out that someone had bestowed an ugly bruise to his cheek and a cut on his forehead. His hair hung more limply than before. Someone had ripped the plaster from his nose, which- although near perfectly straightened- had responded by spreading into a faintly blackened eye.

“Here’s how we’re getting out,” he went on. His fist arched back and he hit Harvey right in the gut.  Harvey bent over with a grunt of pain. “You absolute… _dickweed_ ,” he gasped out.

“That’s right,” sang Jack. “Aren’t you going to hit me back?”

Harvey was on him with a growl. Arms and legs and shouts and curses flew indeterminately and Jonathan could begin to hear footsteps coming quickly toward the door.

“Alight, _alright_ , calm down Blondy,” said Jack suddenly, extracting himself from a headlock. He turned toward Crane, who took a small step backward. The thug’s eyes were still slightly rabid.  The footsteps were getting louder and there was definitely more than one pair.

“So here’s _your_ job, Glasses. As soon the door opens, scream as loud and _shrill_ as possibly, got it? I know you ain’t done with puberty yet, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Me and Blondy’ll handle the rest.”

Jonathan bristled and adjusted his glasses, but nevertheless nodded. The footsteps had reached the door and he stopped and stood on the other side. Jack hunched over and covered his ears, and Harvey did the same. There were a few seconds of absolute silence.

Then the door burst open and a man got out “Don’t move, or I’ll-“ before Jonathan _screamed_ , calling forth the memory he had of being locked in the closet with all the dead stuffed birds for the first time. He hated that closet most. The guards lost their composure and hesitated backward for a split second, but that was all the time that the other boys needed. Jonathan heard a sickening _crack_ and an almost inaudible, horrified swear and then the doorway was empty.

They all stumbled forth into the light of the hallway. Jack seemed to bask in it, like a snake in the sun. “Ok,” he said in his old cheerful voice, “that was good. Nice work on the shriek, kid. That was practically super-sonic.”

Harvey looked paler than usual and Jonathan glanced at one of the guard’s shiny leather shoes sticking through the doorway. He bent down and carefully lifted the foot and bent the stiffened knee until it was safe inside the room and the door swung shut with a _click_. Harvey stared at the space where it used to be for a long moment.

“What now?” asked the oldest boy hollowly.  Jack patted his back. “Now,” he said with a grand sweep of his arm, “now we find and kill the fucker who’s responsible for all this.”

Jack glanced at Harvey again and caught his horrified stare.  “What?” he demanded, voice high. Jonathan could see his lip beginning to tremble.

Jack blinked and his eyes lost a little of their hardness. “Relax,” he said, waving a hand. “I said kill the guy _in charge_. That’s the only death that matters. The only bone I broke in there was a wrist.” He paused and turned to Jonathan. “I _think_. Isn’t that right, Glasses?” Harvey stared at him desperately.  

Jonathan swallowed and nodded, thinking of the cold, heavy foot. “Yeah,” he heard himself reply softly. “That guy was still alive. I- I felt him move.” He could see Harvey’s shoulders visibly relax and a fond look beginning to form in Jack’s direction.

Jack glanced away and cleared his throat. “’Kay,” he said, “playtime’s just begun. Let’s find the boss.”

“Let’s _find Roman,_ ” Harvey cut in quickly. “Then we leave.”

Jack shrugged. “Fine. _You_ can do what you _want_.”

He led them down the hall and up a stairwell and, after a little nosing around, to a sleek silver elevator. The trio ambled inside and Jonathan squinted at the panel. “Which floor?”

“Penthouse,” answered Jack at once. During their travels around the floor, he had collected two handguns- bestowing one of them to Harvey- a Swiss army knife, and a stapler. For Jonathan he bestowed a can of heavy duty mace and advice to aim for the open mouth if the eyes were covered.

Jonathan pressed the button next to the starred P to no avail. A red light above the panel buzzed angrily. “I think it needs some sort of key.”

“Hm,” went Jack, brows furrowing. “I did _not_ see a key…looks like I’ll have to pry this open.” He pulled out his knife and edged it between the panel and the wall.

“What sort of key?” asked Harvey from behind him.

“Oh, from the looks of no clear _key hole_ in sight, I’d say it’s probably rather, uh, _card shaped_ ,” said Jack distractedly as he continued his efforts.

“A key card?” Pressed Harvey in an innocent voice. “With some sort of identification, maybe a name?” He pulled such a card from his suit jacket pocket.

The panel had yet to budge. “Yeah,” Jack panted. “Something like that.” He extracted the knife, defeated, and turned around, catching sight of the card in Harvey’s hand instantly. An inhumanly large grin formed on his face.

“Harvey Dent,” he said in half wonderment, staring straight into the older boy’s eyes. They seemed to be having a long, mental exchange. _Too long_ an exchange.  Jonathan tapped his foot impatiently and glanced away, suddenly embarrassed.

“If you two are done being so _gay_ -“he finally burst out, “can we- just, can we please get going here?”

Harvey took a step away and put the hand to the back of his neck and Jack’s head snapped towards the younger boy. “ _Jonathan_ ,” he stage whispered in mock horror. “Did you just call me a _faggot_?”

Jonathan trembled slightly but stood his ground. He had his mace now, didn’t he? He clutched the canister tightly. He would spray in right in Jack’s stupid face if he tried anything- and then- and _then_ who’d be laughing?

But Jack simply took the key and scanned it. “Press the button,” he ordered. Jonathan complied and they began to silently travel upward.

They stood like that, all three staring at the screen as the numbers ascended.

“I’m sorry,” said Jonathan suddenly. “You were taking so long, and-“

Jack laid a kind hand on the slight boy’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, kid,” said Jack smoothly, staring straight ahead with a tired smile, “I’ll just wait, and in a couple of years or- even _decades_ from now, when you finally make a friend or two-“here Harvey leaned forward to shoot the punk a glare- “I’ll just walk up and start calling _you_ a fairy, over and over, until your new friends _leave_ and then _never comes back-_ “

“Quit it,” muttered Jonathan from the corner of his mouth. His voice dropped lower. “Or I’ll tell. We _both_ know you were lying-“

The elevator interrupted Jack’s reply with a cheerful ding and the doors slide open. Half a dozen men in black suits were greeting them in the hall, assault rifles pointed squarely at the boys’ chests. Jack began to reach for his gun.

“Now boys,” a loud, callous voice called from a room just beyond, “is that any way to treat our guests? Let ‘em at least _meet me_ before you kill them!” The voice laughed, humorlessly. Crane’s back stiffened. He had heard that laugh before.

The three were herded with hands raised into a large spacious office. A large window expanded across the back wall and the city lights and building twinkled in the darkness. In front of the window was a desk and an imposing leather chair, currently faced toward the view.

“Take a seat, kids.” Said the same gravelly voice from behind them. The boys spun toward it to face a stocky man in a dark pin striped suit. He wore a black, skull shaped mask, his cruel mouth and lightly stubbled chin the only part of his face to be seen. The boys wisely obliged and settled in front of the desk. The chair spun around.

In it sat Roman Sionis, grinning sharply like a dog with a particularly juicy bone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! I hope ya'll are enjoying the story. Please comment if you do, I'd love to hear from my readers.


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